Sheriff Sam pulled into the driveway of the slightly dilapidated bungalow belonging to Mr. Ken and Mrs. June Horne. The garden was in dire need of attention, the dry, yellow grass standing nearly halfway to his knees, weeds sprouted abundantly from the otherwise empty flower beds and the few scant trees seemed on the verge of death, devoid of lush green foliage. A cracked cement pathway led to an equally dilapidated house, faded and stained paint peeled from the siding and a missing fascia board exposed the roof trusses, resembling skeletal fingers holding up the remaining roof. Sheriff Sam made a mental note to get a contractor and garden service out to help with the upkeep. The Hornes were an elderly couple - Mr. Horne suffered from Alzheimer's and Mrs. Horne, once a beloved schoolteacher at the nearby High School, was clearly battling with the upkeep.

Sheriff Sam grimaced as he knocked on the door. The last time he stopped by to check on the elderly couple Mrs. Horne had insisted on baking cookies and had kept him for over two hours, while Mr. Horne, already battling his Alzheimer's, had told him the same story about his time playing football and almost scoring the winning touchdown repeatedly. Needless to say, a visit with the Hornes could get off track very quickly. Thankfully he had the foresight to brief Det. West before they arrived and hoped that her presence would help to steer the conversation back on track if it started to veer off into the pointless.

"Hello Sam. So good to see you again! And who is your friend?" Mrs. Horne beamed as she held the door open wide and ushered them inside - Mrs. Horne never referred to him by his formal title which he willingly overlooked given that she was old enough to be his mother, if not older. She was a short, stout woman with a friendly face that always wore her hair, so grey it was almost silver, tied loosely in a bun at the back of her head.

"Mrs. Horne, I am afraid I am here on official business. This is Det. West. She's assisting with an investigation that we'd like to speak to you about," Sheriff Sam replied gently.

A look of concern marred Mrs. Horne's features as she focused on the sheriff. "Sam, what is this about? What investigation? I don't know if I can help," she responded quickly, as she ushered them through the house to the kitchen.

As Sheriff Sam and Det. West took a seat at the old table that Mrs. Horne had directed them to, he explained that they were investigating the grey house and needed to know if she or Mr. Horne had seen anything, leaving out any pertinent details that could compromise the investigation or disturb the elderly lady. Sheriff Sam peppered her gently with questions, but she hadn't seen anything and seemed shocked to find out that there was an investigation of any sort to begin with.

"I really don't know," she declared, seeming a little exacerbated by all the questions. "I don't go out into the yard these days and I barely use the rooms facing the grey house. Ken keeps me busy most of the time and I tend to be in the kitchen baking or knitting in the TV room if I am not taking care of him. I was actually just about to make a lemon chiffon cake for tea. Won't you both stay for a piece?"

"I'm sorry Mrs. Horne, but we have a lot to do still and more people to interview. We can't stay today. But, speaking of Mr. Horne, can we talk to him? I know he sometimes gets confused, but maybe we get lucky, and he remembers something," Sheriff Sam answered, steering the conversation back on track.

"You can't! He's sleeping," she exclaimed. A look of sheer anger, laced heavily with contempt flashed across her features. She took a breath and calmed herself before continuing. "I'm afraid he's not having a very good day. See, he didn't make me coffee this morning and when he doesn't make coffee, I know he's going to have a bad day. Best just to let him sleep on those days."

Sheriff Sam was shocked by the initial aggression with which she had responded. Mrs. Horne was nearly as saintly as Mother Teresa, at least according to local legend. Back in her day, she was always the calming influence when the students got out of hand, always had a good word to say or advice to give and approached nearly every situation with a gentle innate joy. Mrs. Horne was not easily angered and definitely not contemptuous towards any living sole. Her reaction was a fair bit more dramatic than the situation warranted.

"I apologize, Mrs. Horne. I didn't mean to upset you," Sheriff Sam responded quickly.

"Oh, my dear boy! You don't need to apologize. My Ken is just not the man he used to be, and he needs his rest. I just don't know who he'll even be if we wake him now."

Mrs. Horne rubbed her arms, a faraway look in her eyes and a sad smile tugging at her features. No doubt she was remembering the man her husband once was compared with the shell of a person that shared her life with her now. Sheriff Sam looked down at his hands, a sense of guilt gnawing at the back of his mind for upsetting the old lady so. Det. West subtly nudged Sheriff Sam with her elbow. He glanced up at her and noted the razor like focus as her eyes lingered on Mrs. Horne's arm. Below the edge of her sleeve on her upper arm was a livid blue and black bruise. It was more or less the size and shape of a large hand. In fact, as Sheriff Sam stared at the bruise he was certain that he could see darker lines where fingers would have indented the skin.

"Mrs. Horne, how did you get that bruise?" Sheriff Sam asked, his voice barely loud enough to carry across the small kitchen.

Pulled from her reverie, Mrs. Horne immediately stopped rubbing her arms and patted down her sleeve in an attempt to hide the dark mark marring her skin. She turned to Sam with a wan smile on her face.

"Just clumsy, my dear. I walked into the cabinet in my room," she stated.

The churning, gnawing feeling in Sheriff Sam's gut was back. Something was not right here. That bruise was definitely not from a cabinet. It was a handprint. Sheriff Sam was certain of that. He glanced at Det. West. The hard edge to her features said that she didn't believe that cabinet story either. Something was happening in the Horne's house and Sheriff Sam worried for a moment that perhaps whoever had stashed the freezers had threatened and hurt the Hornes, but then it occurred to him that the bruise was far too fresh to correspond with the assumed arrival of the freezers. That broken freezer had been off for near a week, give or take, and that bruise was fresh.

A tension radiated from Mrs. Horne, like a spring wound too tightly, as Sheriff Sam suggested that she see the doctor about the bruise to ensure there were no blood clots and ask that Mrs. Horne call if her husband woke and was feeling able to have a chat and answer questions, before he and Det. West took their leave.

As they climbed into the patrol car, Det. West turned to Sheriff Sam and, before he could even pull out of the driveway, stated with complete certainty that someone and not something had caused the bruise on Mrs. Horne's arm. Sheriff Sam agreed. He would have to look further into that. Maybe he could talk to the local doctor - he might be willing to go against patient confidentiality if he felt there was some abuse going on. Technically Mrs. Horne could be classed as a vulnerable patient due to her age, and if the risk was serious enough it would be legal to break that confidentiality.

With regards to the grey house, Sheriff Sam and Det. West agreed that Mrs. Horne most likely hadn't seen anything. She hadn't even been aware of all the movement the day before as the sheriff, his deputies and the team from Maitland had descended on the house. She hadn't commented on a strange smell either and surely she would have been just as likely to smell it on her property as Jeremiah Omondi, depending on which way the wind blew. Sheriff Sam wished that for once the movies and books had it right and the elderly neighbor had nothing better to do than sit and watch the comings and goings of everyone in the neighborhood from behind a partially closed curtain. At least if that were true Mrs. Horne might have been able to give them a solid lead.

Sheriff Sam sighed and rubbed his hands over his face. This case was a nightmare on steroids. There were no actual leads and the two people they had spoken to had both raised red flags, one for hiding something and one as a possible victim of abuse. Sheriff Sam hoped with all his might that the next neighbor would offer them some useful information or, at the very least, not complicate matters further.